The Taming of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #2) - Elisa Braden
CHAPTER ONE
October 7, 1826
Glendasheen Castle, Scotland
“He dispatches forty men? All with his dirk?” Hazel eyes glinted with amusement as John Huxley scraped a lean hand across his mouth and jaw. “Are you … certain?”
Kate Huxley paused in the middle of demonstrating the imagined maneuver—left hand on hip, right hand extended forward to deliver the killing thrust. She blinked at her brother. “The dirk is the weapon of choice for Highlanders, is it not?”
“Scots do like their dirks; it is true.” John rifled through the pages of her manuscript. “Perhaps the number slain by your hero’s mighty hand could be smaller, hmm?”
Frowning, she crossed the drawing room to glare over his shoulder. “Forty is the number I specified in Act One, Scene Two. If I change it now, I shall be forced to include an additional scene in which Sir Wallace McClure-MacLeod rescues Fiona Farquharson-McPhee a third time.” She folded her arms and eyed her suspiciously firm-lipped brother. “Won’t that strain credulity?”
John was thirteen years older than Kate’s one-and-twenty, and before he’d settled in this remote-yet-magical pocket of the Scottish Highlands, he’d traveled to more places than Kate could name, places where lions roamed and dolphins swam and French ladies bared their bosoms willy-nilly. In short, John knew far more about the world than Kate, which was why she’d asked for his input. She’d hoped—foolishly, it seemed—that he would take her work seriously. Instead, she suspected he was laughing.
If only she were writing a comedy.
“Katie, you have him wearing a bearskin mantle.”
“Yes. And?”
“There are no bears in Scotland.”
“Perhaps I could change it to wolfskin.”
“There are no wolves in Scotland, either.”
She rounded in front of him and clicked her tongue. “Well, there must be predators of one sort or another.”
John leaned forward to set the pages on a tea table. He remained silent, resisting a grin. At least he was trying not to laugh at her. That was something, wasn’t it?
“What of cats?” she pressed.
“What of them?”
“Africa has lions and leopards. They sound frightful. Are there no wild felines prowling the wintry moors of Scotland?”
“I’ve heard of one breed. Quite elusive.”
She retrieved her notebook and pencil from the sofa. “Yes? Is it very large?”
He rubbed his handsome chin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hmm. How large was Erasmus?” He referred to their mother’s ill-tempered housecat, which had been banished to the stables after an incident involving Papa’s silk waistcoats.
Kate held her hands about twenty inches apart.
“Yes. That’s it.”
She sighed. “Are they dangerous, at least?”
“I’m certain field mice regard them with great terror and loathing.”
“John.”
“Papa would also dislike them, I reckon.” He tapped his nose. “The sneezing, you know.”
“You are ruining everything,” she retorted. “How am I to portray the legendaryness of Sir Wallace without implying he is capable of killing a dangerous predator and wearing its pelt?”
He arched a brow. “Legendaryness is not a word.”
She snapped her notebook closed. “I am the author, and I say it is. I also say there are wolves in Scotland. Wolves are better than bears, anyway.”
This time, he didn’t bother disguising his laughter. The chuckles continued as he settled back in his chair. “I admire your pluck, little sister. But even you cannot imagine wolves into being where wolves no longer exist.”
“I shall. It will be exciting. No one will question it.”
“Apart from everyone who has ever been to Scotland.”
“Nonsense. Sir Wallace is a master of the dirk. I shall say he hunted the last surviving wolf in Scotland with nothing but his wits and his blade.” Tingles flashed as an idea sprang to life. “Or his sgian-dubh.”
“Er, Kate?”
“It’s perfect.”
“The sgian-dubh is even smaller than a dirk.”
“Yes! That’s why it’s perfect. ‘He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath.’”
John’s hand slid from his chin to his eyes before dropping away. “Please. Not Shakespeare.”
She jotted a few furious notes. “Should I include a whore, do you think? I could add one to Chapter Five. Audiences love whores.”
“Chapter? I thought you were writing a play.”
She waved off his nattering. “It might be a novel. I haven’t decided.”
Perhaps John had been the wrong person to ask. His new Scottish bride, Annie Tulloch MacPherson Huxley, would surely prove a better resource. Kate’s new sister-in-law might be a bit brash, but she was a Highland lass through and through—red hair, fiery humor, and a brogue as thick as her venison stew.
Besides, Annie understood far better than John why Kate must complete her manuscript before spring. Kate hadn’t had the heart